


Rang’senaar (Phoenix)

by Bigorneaux



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Jetpacks, LadyIrina is a deity among mere mortals, M/M, Married Couple, Physical hurt/comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, References to Past Emotional and Physical Abuse, Rising Phoenix - Freeform, Supportive partner, thank you for Corin, trauma responses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29587599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bigorneaux/pseuds/Bigorneaux
Summary: Having sworn the Creed some time ago, Corin begins training in the Rising Phoenix with Din by his side. But jetpacks have always made him uncomfortable and the nature of what he needs to learn threatens to reopen old wounds. Can Din help Corin overcome his self-doubt and rise from the ashes of his past?
Relationships: Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret)/Din Djarin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Rang’senaar (Phoenix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Chained to sorrow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25538143) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 
  * Inspired by [Touch and Taste](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22789363) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 



> This fic is set in a potential future where Din and Corin have been married for some time, and Corin has sworn the Creed. It does make reference to a few of my other fics set in LadyIrina’s lovely [Mandorin](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560925) 'verse ([Ni Partayli](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28204716/chapters/69114675) and [Suum Ca’nara](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27762463), specifically), but can absolutely be read as a standalone. As well, I think I covered mostly everything in the tags, but if there is something missing, please do let me know. This became a really emotional fic for me to write, so I would love to hear your thoughts/feedback on it!

A blur of blue-green shoots past Din, followed by a string of staticky curses transmitted through the speakers in his helmet. 

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” 

Wincing a little, Din issues an instruction back, voice steady. 

“Arms in. Lean to your left. Modulate the power on your vambrace.” 

Corin tucks his elbows in successfully, but must then hit the wrong button on his vambrace. Rather than steadying, the pulses from the jetpack flare, boosting with a power that their wearer was not prepared for. Losing control, Corin tumbles in the air, body shifting so that his jetpack is steering him toward the ground below. 

In his head, Din mutters his own curse, but keeps his voice even and precise when he speaks. “Corin, roll with it. Button farthest left, reverse thrust. Slow it down. Tuck into the crash.” 

Swooping to follow, Din cuts through the air effortlessly, his control of his own jetpack smooth and natural. Though he knows Corin will be fine, he still sucks in a breath through gritted teeth. At this point, there’s not enough space between Corin and the ground for him to fully recover before reaching it. But, he's managed to follow Din’s last order to slow himself down and they’d picked this location for a reason: the ground is soft and boggy, its thick, water-logged moss making for messy-but-gentle crash landings. It’s similar to the terrain on Ortussa, where Din had first trained in the _Lam’hiibyc Rang’senaar_ , the Rising Phoenix, as a child. 

Corin crashes well, knees loosely bent and arms curved over his helmeted head. Both of them are used to combat, and though it’s a fall from much higher than normal, it’s not Corin’s first experience with coming down from a height. As anxious as he’s been since they started training with the jetpack this morning, Corin has kept his body relaxed with each fall, which speaks to his control and skill as a fighter. A little stab of pride pierces Din. His _riduur_ had sworn the Creed last year, and had lived it with every cell of his body since. Today was no different. 

Din lands neatly a few feet from where Corin is now sprawled. He’s flipped onto his back and is sunk a little into the boggy ground, muddy water pooling up around him. Though the helmet hides his face, the tilt of his t-visor suggests that he is staring blankly up at the planet’s blue sky. Din grimaces as he takes in the state of his husband. Both of them are muddy, but Corin is soaked—and not just from this fall either. It’s one of many today, and as soon as Din walks over to give Corin his hand, he can sense a shift in his husband. Frustration and shame are rolling off him in waves. They’d avoided this so far today, but Din knew that the diffidence burned into Corin by his father was likely to make an appearance at some point. 

Anger flickers to life in Din. While there is still much progress left to be made, Corin has been able to control the jetpack better and better each time, though Din suspects he can see that more than Corin. Swallowing down a sigh, he pushes the fury away before it can rise farther. The largest struggle here will be against the self-doubt within Corin; his anger at Corin's long-dead father will only complicate things. 

Crouching down beside his _riduur,_ Din reaches out a hand. To his dismay, Corin flinches and turns his head away ever so slightly. It’s reflexive, Din knows, but it stings. Ignoring Din’s outstretched hand, Corin rolls onto his side and levers himself up on his own, taking a stance that feels far too much like standing to attention. 

“I’m sorry,” he states, voice a little dead. “I will do better.” He reaches for his vambrace to power the jetpack up again, but Din catches his hand. 

“I think that’s enough for today, _ner kar’ta_ ,” he says mildly. “Let’s head back to the Crest and get cleaned up.”

It’s only mid-afternoon, but the sun is on its changeless course toward the horizon and it will be easier to clean their gear with daylight left. But more than that, Din refuses to let this become what it might: an obsessive quest to prove worthiness. Training with the _Lam'hiibyc Rang'senaar_ is difficult, but there is a sacredness to it, too. A _sen’tra_ comes to know its wearer, and the struggles of training are an important part of that. It’s a communion with the armour itself: the armour learning its wearer as its wearer learns it. And Din wants Corin to experience that, be present in it, instead of overtaken by the trauma of his past. 

Corin persists, though. “I know I failed, but I can do this. I can. Let me—”

It feels too close to a plea and Din cuts him off. “You have _not_ failed. You’re learning, _cyare_. And well, too.” 

Corin is quiet now, but still stands rigidly, all the trained looseness of his fall long gone. Sadness rises up in Din instead of anger this time. There is so much hurt behind that stance, so many years of humiliation at the hands of people he should have been able to trust. Corin has healed so much these past years, but some things can ever be erased. Coped with, but never gone. 

So cope they will. 

They’re alone here and the chances of anyone else arriving are next to none, so Din removes his helmet before he steps any closer to Corin, hoping the sight of his face will help anchor him. When this happens, Din knows, it isn’t exactly a flashback, but it still separates Corin from reality a bit. Puts him in a sort of survival mode, into the same state of mind he’d used to survive the brutal, abusive training drills of his childhood. 

The ground is too muddy for him to set his helmet down, but Din tucks it under his arm and uses his free hand to reach for Corin. He squeezes an unarmoured section of his husband's arm first, and then brings his hand up to Corin’s helmet, his fingers dipping just underneath the lip of it to rest on the release mechanism. 

“Okay if I remove this?” 

Corin replies with a mechanical sounding, “Yes.” 

Forgetting that he has his helmet off, Din frowns, and this makes Corin, who’s likely misinterpreted the gesture, tense a little more. Din pauses, pulling his hand away for a second to tug his glove off with his teeth and tuck it under his arm along with his helmet. With bare fingers, Din tugs down the fabric that covers Corin’s neck and gentles his hand across the skin there.

“ _Kar’ta_ ,” he says, simply, hoping his voice will be a guide out of turmoil, “You can say no, remember? There’s nothing to prove here.” 

The tension in the muscles underneath his fingers eases away just a bit. It’s almost imperceptible, but Din catches it. Good. Progress. He pushes his hand a little further under the fabric and traces light fingertips along the very top of Corin's chest, above his breastplate. 

“ _Gar ru’vaabi jate, kar’ta_ ,” Din murmurs. “You’ve done so well today. _Gar bid jate_.” 

The sigh from his _riduur_ is faint, but Din feels it as much as hears it. Corin’s still tense, but the worst of it seems to give way and he reaches up himself this time and clicks the release on his helmet, pulling it off. 

“Sorry,” he huffs, his eyes downcast but his own, not the glassy, deadened blue Din had feared would be there. 

Din smiles softly and cups Corin’s face. “No sorrys, _kar’ta_. _An jate._ ” 

When Corin looks up, Din leans in, catching his lips in a kiss and sliding his hand up to cradle the back of his head and pull him a little closer. They linger like that for a moment, the kiss warm but chaste, and then Din knocks his forehead to Corin’s and they just breath together, eyes closed. 

Eventually, Corin breaks the _kov’nyn_ and kisses Din lightly on his cheek. Pulling back, he takes Din’s hand in his and gives it a squeeze. “Thanks, _cyare_. Sometimes, I just...hear his voice in my head and it’s hard not to believe it. I felt, still feel, like I should have made more progress by now. We’ve been at this for hours.” 

Din nods. “I know. It’s a rough learning curve. But it’s expected, really it is. When Davarax first started training Paz, Raga, Barthor and me, it took us forever. And I was the last one to get it. Which Paz, of course, took great glory in.” That gets a faint laugh from Corin and Din cracks a half smile. 

“I guess I just forget that you trained with jetpacks as a kid.” Corin gestures to Din’s jetpack and says, “I just keep thinking about how quickly you took to this one when you got it from the Armourer.” 

It’s a good point and not one Din had anticipated. “It took me longer than you think. Don't forget, Mandalorian jetpacks have user-responsive tech. They learn you and your fighting style, and that takes time. Remember when I got shot down when we first met Zev? Jailbreaking her.” Din rolls his eyes good-naturedly at the memory as it comes to mind and Corin nods, managing a small smile. “Probably wouldn’t have happened if I’d had longer to train with the jetpack. Get to know it first. But I just jumped into it. And it cost me.” Almost reflexively, Din reaches behind him to touch the spot where he knows there is a faint scar. Having been healed by Grogu, it’s not nearly as bad as some of the scars on his body, but it’s there, and it’s one of the scars he likes—a reminder of a friend, in a way. 

Eyes darting down to the ground, thoughtful, Corin sighs, seeming to finally unwind the rest of the way. Then he looks up, the warm affection writ across his face going straight to Din’s heart. “Thanks for helping me screw my head back on straight, _cyare_.” 

“Anytime, _di’kut_.” Grinning, Din grasps Corin's shoulder and gives him a loving shake. “Now, you look and smell like a swamp monster and I’m not much better. Let’s get back to camp and clean up.” 

• • •

Din flies them both back to the lakeside clearing where the Crest is so they can set about their work. It’s a warm, sunny day, so they start by stripping down and jumping into the lake to wash off. They soap up and then just relax for a bit, Corin swimming out a ways to burn off his ever-present nervous energy, and Din floating on his back, watching puffy white clouds roll by while the breeze shakes the small, trembling leaves of the trees that line the shore. The air is soft with the scent of pine and wildflowers, and Din feels cradled by the water, renewed. This place always makes him feel that way. It’s one of the only open air locations in the galaxy where he feels secure enough to not only remove his armour, but his helmet as well. 

The first time they’d been to this planet, a few years ago, it’d been suggested to them by Raga as a place to recoup after a pirate-related mishap on a supply run. It was a small forest planet in an unpopulated and unremarkable star system, and it seemed only to be known to a few in the Covert and no one else. A sense of safety and ease seemed to permeate the planet, and Grogu’s response to it the first time they’d been here had confirmed that for Din. Since then, it’s become a reprieve for the three of them. A place to escape and just be a family. 

A little ache settles in Din’s chest at the thought of his son. This was their first time coming here without the _ad’ika_ and while the planet’s frogs were likely relieved, Din missed him and felt oddly guilty for being here without him. But they needed to focus on Corin’s training and Grogu was happy enough to stay back with the other children at the Covert, as well as overjoyed that he’d be staying with his favourite providers of crunchy snacks, Paz and Raga. Closing his eyes, Din sends a little promise out to his son that they’ll bring him back here soon, and then turns to duck down under the water for a moment before resurfacing and swimming out towards Corin. 

They paddle around a bit longer, appreciating the aimlessness of it all, and then decide to head in and get started on the rest of their tasks. It’s as they’re wading toward the beach in chest deep water that Din looks toward their camp and is caught by the sight of their two helmets sitting side by side, the unpainted beskar of his own glinting in the golden rays of the late afternoon sun and the blue-green paint of Corin’s standing out against the coppery pebbles of the lakeshore. He’s suffused, suddenly, with a heart-skipping rush of love and pride and he reaches through the water to pull Corin to him with a gentle hand. 

“Wait,” he says, stilling them both and looking into the blue of Corin’s eyes. There’s a question there, but Din silences it with a soft kiss to the corner of his husband’s mouth. “Just want another moment,” he whispers, pressing his cheek to Corin’s and pulling him close. There’s work to do, but his affection overcomes him like a spell he’s loath to break. Corin may sometimes doubt his worthiness to be _Mando’ade_ , but Din never has. And while he would never have asked Corin to swear the Creed, Din’s joy at his _riduur_ ’s decision runs deep, feels almost sacred. 

Hooking an arm around Corin’s waist, Din trails his fingertips up the curve of his spine, the skin there water-slick and sun-warm under his touch. When he drops his face into the crook of Corin’s neck, he takes a second to breathe in the clean, lakewater scent of him, and then places light kisses out along the solid muscle of his shoulder. 

Corin hums warmly at the attention. “What’s gotten into you?” he asks, voice a little coy. 

Din smiles against the curve of Corin’s shoulder. “You,” he says, and then moves up to nip delicately at Corin’s neck. He steps back a bit and runs both hands down Corin’s chest as he catches his gaze. “Proud of you, _kar’ta_. And not just today either. Always. Just for being you.” Corin never fails to open up under his praise, turning to it like a flower that follows the sun, but Din wants to make sure he reminds him it’s not something he has to earn. Not something he has to humiliate or hurt himself for. 

Corin makes a strangled noise, eyes a little wide, cheeks a little pink, and Din continues, wanting to make his point perfectly clear. They’re still chest deep in water, and Din reaches under the surface to pull up one of Corin’s hands. He thumbs over the underside of Corin’s wrist, tracing the blue-green veins there, their paths made vivid in the brilliant sunshine of the day, the fluttering pulse in them quickening under his touch. When Din brings the wrist to his mouth, the kisses he places there are near-chaste, close-lipped and mirroring the aching sweetness that constricts his chest. He lingers over the velvet softness there, then trails his lips to Corin’s palm, leaving a final kiss in the centre before cupping Corin’s hand in his own and pulling it forward to lay over his own heart. 

“ _Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum_ , Corin.” He strokes Corin’s hand as it rests against his chest. “I hold you in my heart forever. “And not because of what you can do, _kar’ta_. Because of who you are.” 

Now, it’s Corin who kisses him, closing the distance between them with a soft swish of water and meeting Din’s lips in a kiss that is, this time, anything but chaste. Din parts his mouth to the warm heat of Corin’s and groans as their tongues meet. Corin tastes faintly of apples and cold caf, and Din drinks him in, intoxicated by it. He will never, ever tire of kissing Corin. He was Din’s first kiss, and Din knows he’ll be his last, too, his only. The perfection of that strikes Din hard every time he thinks it, and this time is no exception. When they break for air, Din feels overcome, heart pounding in his breathless chest, and Corin is similarly affected. They kiss again, gentler this time, slower and softer, hands on each other's faces. 

Eventually Corin pulls away to press his lips to Din’s temple and murmur against the skin there. “I love you, too, _ner riye_. So much.” He brushes nimble fingers into the damp hair at the nape of Din’s neck, and they just hold each other. Under the water, Din can feel the press of Corin’s cock against his hip. They’re both hard, stirred by the moment and by their closeness. But there’s also no sense of urgency to their desire, and Din thinks it might be wise to set it aside for the time being in the interest of setting up their camp properly. There’s gear to attend to and a meal beyond apples and this morning’s leftover caf would be nice. Besides, the thought of Corin laid out for him in the glow of the fire, his skin awash in both silver moonlight and golden flame, dances at the back of his head. 

Corin seems to be thinking something similar, breaking their embrace and stepping away. “Ready to head in?” he asks, taking Din’s hand. 

Din sighs good-naturedly. “Yeah, I suppose so.” 

“Lots to do.” Corin searches his eyes, though, as if he’s trying to determine whether he’s read the situation right.

Din hums in agreement. “We’ll continue this later though.” 

Corin grins, radiant in the sun. “That a promise, _cyare_?”

“Definitely.” 

• • •

They dry off and get dressed in clean trousers and shirts. The clothing and underarmour they’d worn during training are heavy with bogwater and mud, and will need to be washed in the lake and hung to dry. Afternoon is bleeding into early evening now and a few midges are buzzing in the air around them. Nothing serious, but enough to be an unwelcome annoyance, so Corin suggests they build a fire early so that the smoke will keep the bugs away while they work. 

It’s when they’re gathering wood for the fire that Din notices Corin favouring one of his shoulders, the one he’d broken the collarbone of in their fight with Thilleon. The one he knows Corin had broken twice before that. Though he’s never divulged how, Din has his suspicions, remembering Corin’s disbelief that someone would even care about the injury at all. Since their time on Seswenna, Corin’s been more open about talking about his past, but some things are harder than others to share and Din is careful not to prod too much, wanting Corin to revisit his pain in his own time. 

Din watches him closely for a second as he walks toward him. Nothing seems seriously injured, just stiff. He likely jarred it on one of his falls and it’s just settling into soreness now. Knowing Corin will dismiss it as nothing, Din simply takes the wood from his arms and asks him to see to the less strenuous tasks of gathering the supplies for cooking food and cleaning their gear. He’ll keep an eye on it and address it if it starts to seem like Corin is masking something more serious than minor discomfort. 

They build the fire close to the water’s edge and settle down next to it. Once they’re about halfway through cleaning their gear, Din sets up a simple tripod over the fire and hangs a pot of water over it. Sick of protein bars, they’re both looking forward to the stew they intend to make. It’s simple, but it, like the apples, is a treat to be grateful for.

Din also watches Corin discreetly as they work. Given the taut line of Corin’s shoulders, the collarbone is obviously still bothering him, but he’s said nothing. The old injury affects his dominant arm, and Din’s certain that the motions needed to clean the gear can’t be making it feel any better. He lets it go until Corin reaches out to grab a tool that’s sitting in front of Din and Din notices his hand trembling faintly. Corin’s pain tolerance is heart-wrenchingly high, and the tell confirms for Din that Corin is masking more than regular soreness. Setting the pauldron he was working on aside, Din scoots over closer to his husband and pulls his hand up from where it’s working on the magnetic latchings of his breastplate. 

He can hear Corin swallow, unsure of how to respond, and can see the effect of the pain in the faint furrow of his brow. But then Corin seems to draw on his disturbingly deep well of resolve and schools his features into a mischievous grin. 

“Didn’t think later would be so soon, _ner mesh’la cyare_. We’ll have to be quick though.” Corin tilts his head toward the food that’s simmering over the fire. His voice is playful, almost sensual, and Din realizes that Corin thinks he’s trying to initiate something, realizes that Corin is ready to hide his pain in order to give Din pleasure. That twists in his gut like a knife. Corin’s been so much better with things like this in the past few years, but today there seems to have been some kind of regression. Din feels a stab of guilt, knowing that it’s been brought on by the trials of training. Jetpacks have always made Corin nervous as hell and that’s combined now with his fear of failure. 

Din shifts, rising up on his knees in front of Corin and taking his chin in his hand to tilt his face gently up. “No, _kar’ta_ ,” he says, unable to completely hide away the sadness in his voice. 

Corin looks suddenly nervous. “No?” 

“You’re in pain.” 

Eyes darting down, Corin’s jaw moves in the cradle of Din’s hand as his throat works through an apprehensive swallow. “It’s nothing,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.” 

Whenever this happens, Din always tries to monitor his expressions, keep them calm and reassuring. But for the second time today, he can’t help the involuntary grimace he makes. He’s imagining those words said in a child’s voice, small and tremulous and trying to be strong, and he has to pinch a hand across his eyes to press back the tears that try to prickle up. 

The expression sends Corin spiralling further. “I’m so sorry,” he says, quick and plaintive. “It’s really nothing. I’m fine. I really am.”

“Corin, you are not fine.”

“I am. It’s just pain. It’s nothing I don’t deserve for—”

“ _Gev!_ ” Din doesn’t mean to bark it like that, but he can’t let Corin finish. “You did _not_ fail and even if you did, you don’t deserve pain. The man who taught you that—Corin—” Din softens, moving his hand to cup the side of his husband’s stricken face, running the pad of his thumb across the delicate skin of his cheek. “Remember what I said in the lake? I—I want you to know that you don’t deserve pain. You are so good, Corin. _You_ , not what you can do. So good. _Bid jate_. And you don’t have to earn feeling good. No matter what that voice in your head says—what _his_ voice says—you deserve to feel good. I know today’s been a hard day, that everything from—from that time—feels too close right now, but please let me in. Let me help you.” 

Corin closes his eyes, his lower lip trembling. His voice is small but—blessedly—trusting when he speaks. “It hurts. It does. It’s not—it’s not broken again or anything. I just wrenched it on that last crash landing and it wasn’t even really bothering me at first and I—I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just—” Corin loses his nerve for a minute. In the silence, Din can hear the crickets in the long grasses by the lake, feel the waning, dilute heat of the setting sun on his back. Thinking of their son’s connection to the Force, he tries to draw strength from the energy of the serene, beautiful planet that holds them safe. While he knows it’s nothing like what Grogu can do, he imagines collecting the warm energy of the life around him into his hand and pressing it into Corin. 

“Try to tell me if you can, _kar’ta_ ,” he encourages, his hand sliding down gently across the old injury, featherlight and soothing, before dropping down to rest on Corin’s knee. 

Looking down, Corin sighs but gives a faint nod. “I first broke my collarbone when I was a boy. Thirteen, I think? I was training with my father and landed awkwardly. We were doing a mission drill where I had to—” Corin seems sick for a second, his hand rubbing anxiously across his belly. “Where I had to climb up using repulsorlift platforms and ropes during a simulated attack to reach an objective. I fell early on in the exercise and something snapped inside me, in my shoulder. My collarbone. It hurt so…” Swallowing thickly, Corin reaches up to touch his collarbone, press into a little as if to feel some of that pain again, before licking his lips nervously and continuing. “It hurt so bad, but Father made me finish the mission. And Din, I did it. I didn’t scream, or cry, and I reached the objective. And this is...it’s _nothing_ compared to that so I thought—I thought—”

The tension and submission that had overtaken Corin so abruptly this afternoon makes sense now. The jarring of that old injury had stirred up old memories, old trauma. He thinks about Corin rejecting the hand he’d offered to help him up and wonders whose hand he’d seen in that moment. Macero’s would never have been extended in a genuine offer of help. Instead, it would have been a test to see if Corin would give into weakness. Corin’s pain, Din knows, is so much deeper than a physical ache. Rage sits like a heavy, fire-hot stone in Din’s gut, but he is careful not to let its heat bleed through to where it doesn’t belong. His voice is low and soothing when he asks, “What did you think, _kar’ta_?” 

Corin squeezes his eyes shut briefly and then looks down to his hands to avoid meeting Din’s gaze. “That it wasn’t worth mentioning. It’s been so much worse, and pain is just a distraction to be controlled. To let it control you is to be weak, to be an...embarrassment." He finishes quietly, voice cracking and dying on that last whispered word.

Din can’t even begin to imagine the brutality of drilling such a thought into a child’s head. He’d been raised in the Fighting Corps, had hardened his body into a weapon, too, but it was never like that. They were children, and though they trained hard, they were also allowed to be kids. And they’d been taught to take care of their bodies: to listen to them and honour them as their first and best weapon, to protect them with beskar and treat the injuries that could not be prevented with care. 

“Corin, _ner kar’ta_ , listen to me.” He reaches up to tilt Corin’s face back up and pushes down the flare of rage at the misery he finds there. Corin’s eyes flutter closed, still unable to meet his, but Din presses on, recalling the words Davarax said to him long ago. “Pain is important. It’s our body’s way of telling us something is wrong, that something needs attention. And it’s okay to give it that attention. It’s okay to ease the hurt. As fighters, sometimes we need to push through the pain for a while. But then we need to listen to our bodies and let them heal, help them. And there’s no fight right now, Corin; there’s no need to push through. So, let me help, please.” 

When Corin opens his eyes, there’s a wetness in them that reflects the heady, glittering light of the sunset, transforming them into the blue-orange of a searing flame. _Like a fire of rebirth—a phoenix._ The thought arrives in Din’s mind suddenly, with a brilliant clarity. _Let me remake your thoughts,_ he thinks, a vague prayer to whatever force is listening. _Let me make it so that you know just how very worthy you are._ Dragging a thumb over Corin’s bottom lip, Din asks again, voice hoarse. “Please?” 

A thick stillness falls between them for a moment, and then Corin blinks and nods, unwinding under Din’s hands. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, okay.” 

Din smiles, exhaling a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. He kisses Corin’s cheek. “ _Vor’e, kar’ta._ I’ll be right back.” As he rises, Din notes the gear Corin has been working on, and adds, “Just keep an eye on the food. I’ll finish your gear when I get back.” Corin looks like he has to fight hard against the automatic protest that rises up in him, but he does, nodding faintly and turning toward the fire. 

Once he’s in the Crest, Din grabs what he needs efficiently. The medkit, one of Corin’s long sleeve shirts, a ground tarp, and the mattress roll and blankets they keep for when they sleep in the Crest. He also finds the flask of _tihaar_ he keeps tucked in the weapons cabinet and pockets it. Din knows Corin is more than tough enough to get through the pain, but he doesn’t want him to. He wants him to relax and enjoy after a day spent doing something far, far beyond his comfort zone. He wants him to feel _good_. 

By the time he returns, the stew is almost ready to and Corin announces it needs only a few minutes more. Working efficiently, Din spreads out the tarp and unrolls the mattress out over it, arranging the blankets and fluffing out the down-pillows that press down to store flat inside it. It’s a good system, one they’d adopted years ago to sleep more comfortably as a family in the Crest, and it also lends itself well to open air sleeping. Then, he settles down behind where Corin is sitting cross-legged by the fire and opens the medkit, pulling out numbing liniment and a hypospray.

He starts with the liniment. After tugging Corin’s sleeveless shirt gently up and off, he squirts a generous amount of the viscous, green liquid into his hand, and warns Corin. “It’ll feel really cold, especially in the night air. I know you like the cold, but if it gets too cold, you have to tell me. There’s lots of blankets and I brought out one of your long sleeve shirts, too.” 

“You’re being a mother hen, you know,” Corin points out, but he sounds more quietly grateful than annoyed. 

A crooked smile tugs at Din’s lips and he ghosts a kiss on Corin’s shoulder before spreading the liniment over him. Though Corin is tense at first, almost jumping under Din’s touch, he relaxes as Din works and the pain begins to ease away. Din can feel that nothing is seriously amiss. No rebreaks, just a lot of muscle tension and inflammation. With proper care, it should be a fair bit better by morning. 

Next, he shimmies around to Corin’s side and shows him the hypospray. “Anti-inflammatory and analgesic. That okay?” 

Looking down at the canister in his hand, Corin arches an eyebrow. “It’s really not _that_ bad, Din. There’s no need to waste—”

“Nope.” Din cuts him off unceremoniously. 

“What?” That eyebrow’s still arched and a little spark of good humor has softened the sadness in Corin’s eyes. The mood’s a little lighter now, Corin more present with Din than snared in his past. Din smiles inwardly at the shift, grateful he can ease both sources of Corin’s pain. 

Playfully, he taps a finger to Corin’s lips and says, “Not a waste if it helps you, _ner mesh’la kovedee_.” 

It’s a word Din knows Corin will be unfamiliar with despite his now near-fluency in the language and he can see Corin working over the Mando’a in his head. “ _Ner koh-veh-dee_.” He rolls it over his tongue. “I don’t recognize—” 

Din deadpans. “It’s a cow creature from Mandalore. Legendary for its stubbornness.” 

Getting exactly the reaction he desired, Din laughs brightly, easily, as Corin rolls his eyes and uses his uninjured arm to give Din a loving shove. “ _Utreekov_ ,” he mutters. “Your beautiful cow. Din, really.” He chuckles, but then continues more seriously. “I just mean that in the range of pain I could be feeling, it really doesn’t warrant using a hypospray. They’re expensive and—” 

“Does it hurt badly enough that you’re not fully enjoying yourself? Because that’s why we came here, remember. To counter the intensity of jetpack training with a place we love?” 

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” 

“Wasn’t my question.” 

Corin sighs, but it’s warm and affection-filled. “Okay, yes. It’s...distracting and uncomfortable. Even with the numbing gel.” And he tilts his neck to the side to allow Din the access he needs to administer the hypospray. 

“There,” Din says, patting Corin’s arm once he’s finished. “That ought to deal with the worst of it and—” He pauses, pulling out the flask from his pocket. “This will deal with the rest of it.” 

Corin grins. “That hardly counts as medicine, Din,” he chides, but he plucks the flask from Din’s hand and takes a swig, his eyes screwing up comically as he swallows. “ _Osik_ , I may be a Mandalorian now, but I will _never_ get used to that.” 

Laughing, Din takes his own swig, scowling only faintly as the _tihaar_ burns its way down his throat and into his stomach. “I’d say it’s an acquired taste...but my first drink of it was decades ago and I’m not entirely sure I’ve fully acquired it yet.” 

They pass it back and forth a couple more times, letting the fiery liquid chase away the last of the day’s tension, and then Corin pulls the lid off the stew pot and declares it’s time to eat. Din tucks the flask away, and they enjoy the stew in companionable silence as night settles in above them and the stars flicker into life. When they finish, Din shoos Corin onto the bedroll and drags the blankets over him, instructing him to just rest while he finishes with the gear and sets the camp to rights. 

• • •

Once everything is cleaned up and away, Din sits down at the foot of the bedroll and looks at Corin, who’s dozing lightly in the firelight, the blankets Din had tugged over him pushed down to his waist and the long sleeve shirt still folded neatly off to the side. Din raises an eyebrow at that—so much for worrying that the liniment would make his actual furnace of a husband too cold—but he also takes long moments to just admire the beauty laid out in front of him. Between the treatment for his shoulder, the hearty meal, and the swigs of _tinaar_ , Corin has finally relaxed completely, and nothing makes Din happier. He wishes, not for the first time, that Corin could see himself through his eyes. See himself as not only as good and kind and worthy, but as _everything_. 

Eventually, Corin stirs a little and cracks an eye open. “Enjoying the view?” he asks. He’s groggy and unguarded and sweet, and Din has to push down the desire that flares to life in his gut. A lot has happened since the promise they made in the lake and Din is careful to make no assumption as to whether or not Corin would still feel up to anything beyond sleeping. 

“Mhm,” Din says, carefully neutral. “Always.” 

Corin's face splits in a grin and he is so, so beautiful—is the moon and the stars and the sun that burns away the night and pulls Din forever into its orbit. 

“C’mere.” Corin pats the bedroll next to him, and Din obeys without question, tugging off his shirt and sliding in under the blankets to lie shoulder to shoulder next to Corin. 

The night is cool, but not cold, and with Corin beside him, Din is comfortable despite his exposed skin. The nights here are always beautiful and this one is no exception. Small, bioluminescent bugs wink in and out of the forest that surrounds the beach and meadow where their camp is. They glow in soft, cool blues in Din’s peripheral vision as he and Corin watch the sky above, making it feel like the blanket of stars above has fallen down to the ground to envelop them completely. Across the lake, a pair of nightbirds sing to each other, their song sweetly haunting. Din’s almost asleep when Corin moves beside him, raising an arm so that his hand comes to rest on Din’s stomach, fingers swirling in a gentle caress. 

“You still awake?” Corin asks and Din can read the unspoken want in the question.

“ _Elek, kar’ta._ ” 

“Do you, uh—Well, in the lake you said, uh—and I—”

Din casts an amused glance into the sky above him and then rolls over, propping himself up on an elbow so that he can gaze down at Corin. Despite the hesitancy in his request, his husband’s face is open and lovely, adorned by the dancing light of the campfire. 

“What did I say?” Din can’t help the huskiness in his voice, his desire welling up into his throat. He moves a hand down the plane of his husband's chest, brushing over one nipple and then the other before coming to rest low on Corin’s stomach. 

Corin swallows, his mouth making a little click as it falls open afterward. “Later,” he breathes. “You said later.” 

“I did,” Din confirms, rubbing his hand back and forth across the hard muscle and soft skin of Corin’s abdomen. 

“Well...it’s later.” Corin is coy, but purposefully so, his face serious but a laugh flickering in his eyes along with the firelight. 

Din hums and dips his hand just under the waistband of Corin’s trousers, worrying at the sensitive skin there. He wants Corin, always wants Corin, but he also wants to make sure that none of this comes from a false sense of obligation, especially given his husband’s struggles earlier in the day. Drawing his eyes up from where his fingertips disappear under Corin’s clothes, Din finds his husband's gaze and holds it, eyes firm. “We’re only doing this if it’s something _you_ want, _kar’ta_. There’s no expectation here.” 

Corin reaches up with the arm closest to Din, the hale one, and curls his fingers into the hair just underneath Din’s ear. “ _Ner riye_ ,” he whispers. It’s such a little thing, but it stops Din’s heart every time Corin says it. _My good turn_. For him, Din is the moment that good luck arrived, that everything changed for the better. Din wants to tell him, remind him, that it was the same for him, that he dreads where he might be right now without Corin and their son, but Corin continues before he can, quiet but sure. “I want this—want you. You say I’m good? Well, you make me feel good and I want—I want to feel good. With you. Tonight. In this place.”

Din kisses him then, long and sweet. When he draws back, he touches a light hand to Corin’s far shoulder, the sore one. “Promise you’ll tell me if anything we do is hurting you?” 

Once Corin nods, Din pushes the blankets off them both and straddles Corin’s lower legs so that he can undo Corin’s belt. He doesn’t want to wait, wants to see Corin laid out for him in the night, skin like honeyed silver. Corin lets out faint, hitching breaths each time Din’s hands brush his growing hardness and by the time Din’s fumbled his way through the belt and the fly of the trousers, his own cock is already so hard it's leaking in his underwear and he feels almost crazy with anticipation. But he wills himself to go slow because more than anything, he wants to worship Corin, wants desperately to not just make him feel good, but _know_ he is good. Nudging Corin’s hips up, he pulls the pants off, dragging Corin’s underwear along with them. 

Setting the clothes aside, Din sits back on his heels between Corin's now-parted legs and just looks. “You,” he says, low with want, “You are…” He shakes his head. Normally, Din can’t stop running his mouth during sex but the sight before him has knocked even that out of him for a moment. The contrasts—flame and shadow, fierceness and fragility, perfection and scar—are what arrest him the most. The beautiful complexity of the man he loves comes as no surprise anymore, yet still manages to steal his breath. 

Corin beams up at him playfully, fully aware of the effect he’s having on his _riduur_. Tapping Din’s hip with his foot, he asks, “Like what you see?” And then, in a move that’s both devil and saint, Corin reaches down and strokes his own cock a couple of times, loose-handed and languid. 

Biting back a groan, Din lifts up one of Corin’s legs and kisses the bone of his ankle. _“Ner oyu'baat_ ,” he murmurs against the skin, finding his voice again, _“Ni copaani gotal'u gar aala bid jate_.” And he trails a teasing line of kisses from Corin’s ankle to his knee before letting his leg drop back down and moving further up his _riduur_ ’s gorgeous body. He drops kisses, warm and open, up the soft flesh of Corin’s inner thigh and relishes each breathy noise he gets in return. Corin’s stopped stroking himself and is focused instead on Din’s touches. He loves this, Din knows. Loves the reverent touches of Din’s mouth and fingertips as they explore his body, travelling paths that have been travelled so many times before and yet always feel somehow new. 

When he reaches Corin’s torso, Din steals a long look at his cock, thick and heavy and leaking against his belly, but makes no move to touch it yet. Instead, he worries teeth and tongue over the large, circular scar on the left side of Corin’s abdomen. It’s one of many scars on Corin’s body, but it’s the one that brought them together, the one Corin earned protecting the child that would become their son. Picking up the sentiment behind the caress, Corin tangles his hand into Din’s hair and sighs out a soft “I love you.” Din returns it between kisses, eyes a little wet. 

Corin is trembling with want by the time Din’s hands finally come up to touch his face and their mouths meet again in a heated kiss. He moans, loud and long, when Din rolls his hips down to grind against Corin’s bare cock with his clothed one. Tracing fingers down the beautiful curve of Corin’s throat, Din asks, “How do you want this, _cyare_?” 

Bucking his hips up into Din’s, Corin moans out, “Want you in me. Please,” and Din can’t help the strangled noise he makes. His pants suddenly feel impossibly small, his dick impossibly hard. 

“Stars, yes, _jate, kar’ta_. Yes, want that too.” 

Corin stretches an arm over to where their armour and gear is stacked neatly next to the bedroll, obviously searching for one of the tins of multi-purpose salve they keep in their belts for armour irritation. He can’t quite reach without getting up partially, so Din places a firm hand on his chest. “I’ll get it,” he murmurs, wanting Corin to just relax and enjoy all of this. 

Once he has it, he doesn’t rush, but he also wastes no time either. He slicks Corin’s cock and takes it in a firm grip, swiping his thumb over the wetness at the tip and then stroking him with an easy, rolling rhythm. It’s not long before Corin’s getting frantic beneath his touch, but Din keeps the same unhurried pace. Writhing, Corin runs a hand across his own chest to brush over his nipples. “ _Osik_ , Din,” he whines, “That’s so good.” 

“Mhm,” Din hums, leaning back over Corin for a quick kiss. “Do you want more?” 

Corin bucks his hips up involuntarily at the question. “Ungh, yes. Yes, please.” 

So Din gives him more. Props his hips up with a folded blanket and starts to work him open with careful, loving touches. He’s got three fingers in Corin and a hand around his cock when he starts to feel like he might die if his own cock goes untouched any longer. Pulling his hand from Corin’s cock, he fumbles his pants open and draws his own dick out, pumping it a few times with a loud groan. Corin watches him hungrily as he does this, and that just intensifies everything, makes him tremble with want. “Stars, Corin,” he grunts, “Do you see what you do to me? You are so good; you make me burn, _ner tracinya_.” 

After a moment, Corin reaches a hand down to where Din’s fingers are thrusting into him. Stills them and nudges Din to withdraw them. “You now,” he says, eyes dark with desire. “Please.” 

Din’s pulse thuds in his veins and his heart floods with love for the tempting, beautiful man before him. He fumbles his way out of his pants with graceless anticipation and applies more salve to both himself and Corin before settling over top of Corin, hands planted on either side of his face, and lining himself up. He pushes in at the same time he catches Corin’s mouth in a gentle kiss, wanting to make sure he distracts him from the initial, fleeting discomfort of being breached.

And at first, as they find a sweet, building rhythm, Corin’s face is alight with pleasure. But as they pick up speed, as Din thrusts harder into him, he sees a flicker of discomfort where there should be blissful abandon. He slows as soon as he notices, looking down at Corin. 

“ _Kar’ta?_ ” he asks.

Corin’s brow furrows for a split second before quickly smoothing out. “It’s noth—” he starts, but then reconsiders part way through. “It’s my shoulder,” he says instead. “Just this position. It’s putting pressure on it. Not pain, really, just...” He trails off. 

Exhaling warmly, Din lays his hand over Corin’s heart and feels like his own might explode. Corin opens his mouth to speak again and Din can see the apology forming. He cuts it off with a finger to Corin’s lips. “You did good, _cyare_. So good for telling me.” He smiles and kisses his cheek. “Proud of you.” 

Din pulls out and lies down beside Corin, running soothing touches across his skin. “What would feel better, do you think?” 

Catching Din’s hand, Corin draws it to his mouth, kissing his fingertips. Then he eases himself up to a sitting position. Din makes to follow, but Corin presses him back down into the bedroll. With a graceful movement, Corin turns and straddles Din’s hips. “This, I think,” he says, and then reaches behind himself to line Din’s dick up with his entrance and sink back onto him, sitting up straight and rolling his hips experimentally. 

Din bites back a groan and asks, “Better?” 

Corin answers with a yes that turns into a moan as Din presses his hips up to meet where Corin’s begun rocking himself up and down on Din’s cock. It’s delicious, Corin above him, ruddy in the glow of the campfire, rising up over Din to let go of pain and seek pleasure. Din thinks again of a phoenix, remade in flame. 

Soon, they settle into a pace and angle that begins to push them both toward completion, pleasure coiling up tight in each of them. Corin keeps clenching around Din involuntarily, spasming and stuttering as Din’s cock hits that spot inside him that radiates pleasure. And it feels good—so, so good—for Din, too, the sudden increases in pressure stealing his breath and blotting out his vision. He wants to tip his head back and shout into the heavens, but instead he fixes his gaze on Corin, grasping his hips to bring him down hard on his cock over and over, and speaks, voice raw and wild, spilling everything in his heart out into the firelit air. 

“Burn for me, _ner rang’senaar_. Burn for me and leave your doubt in the ashes. _Gar bid mesh’la, bid jate_. Know that. Know that always, _ner kar’ta_.” 

Stricken, Corin looks down at him, chin quivering, and when Din reaches up to touch his trembling mouth, Corin squeezes his eyes shut, tears on his lashes. Din slows then, a tenderness taming him, the hand that had been intensifying each thrust now slowing them down. “Look at you,” he says, “So lovely. So lovely for me.” He runs his other hand down across Corin’s sore shoulder. “Do you still feel good?” 

A noise leaves Corin that is half whine, half stifled sob, and he drops down onto his unhurt arm so that he can kiss Din, uncoordinated and fervent. “Yes, yes,” he pants against Din’s cheek as he pauses for air. “Yes, so good, _bid jate_.” 

Din cups his face with one hand and uses the other, still on his hip to steady him as he fucks up into him hard again, hips snapping. “Then let go,” he breathes, thumbing across Corin’s damp eyelashes, across the tears that Corin’s trying to hold back. “Let go.” 

Corin does. He rises back up and fucks down onto Din with a shuddering sob, head tipped back and throat exposed, drenched in golden flame. Din reaches a hand out blindly for the tin of salve and slicks his fingers again. When he wraps them around Corin’s cock, Corin’s head snaps back down and Din gets to drink in what a beautiful mess he is: cheeks wet, eyes wide, mouth open, chin quivering, chest heaving. And he only becomes more beautiful, more undone, as Din works his hand over him. He’s close, so close, and so is Din. But Din needs him to come first, needs to see him reborn before he’s remade himself, so he uses his mouth to give pleasure of a different kind, to drag Corin over the precipice and into bliss. 

“ _Kar’ta, ner kar’ta_ ,” he pants, voice ragged. “I wish—wish you could see yourself. How beautiful you are, how perfect. _Bid jate, ner mesh’la rang’senaar. Jii k’hetti. K’hetti._ ” 

The praise sends Corin tumbling over the edge, cock pulsing in Din’s hand, his release streaking up across his stomach and chest in thick spurts. Between that sight and the tightness of Corin clamping down around him, it’s an easy thing for Din to let go himself and be consumed by the inferno of his own release. 

When the stars blink back into existence above him, Din helps his beautiful, spent husband ease up off him and gingerly lie back down. Corin’s still not fully come back to himself yet, is still shaking finely under Din’s hands, so Din’s loath to stray far. Instead of getting up for a damp cloth to clean them, he grabs the canteen of water that’s lying next to their helmets and sacrifices his shirt. Then he lingers, sitting beside Corin and stroking his sweat-damp hair until his breath settles into the quietness of sleep. Before he sleeps himself, he sends a silent prayer to the stars that he’s managed to burn away even just a little of Corin’s self-doubt so that he can catch a glimpse of himself for what he really is: _everything_.

• • •

The next morning, they wake up and they fly again. Like the day before, Corin falls. Flies and falls and rises. Each time he stays in the air a little longer, flies a little smoother. Each time he falls, he takes Din’s outstretched hand and he rises. Then, when he hurts, he tells Din without fear and they stop, and Din’s heart burns bright because that, even more than the trials of the _Lam’hiibyc Rang’senaar_ , is something sacred, is a phoenix that is rising from the ashes of its past.

**Author's Note:**

> **TRANSLATION NOTES**
> 
> I’ve only added less common words this time around. If there’s any additional ones you’d like added feel free to ask! [Here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1VOJ6M70ehNWiV4dnDfYconG5AIwRxNX3FQNfV2Ij0b0/edit?usp=sharing) is the main tool I’ve been using for Mando’a lately (it’s amazing, check it out). As well, the use of _ner riye_ as an endearment comes from [this tumblr post](https://izzyovercoffee.tumblr.com/post/165165671390/can-i-please-request-some-mandoa) by Izzyovercoffee (whose blog is also a fantastic Mando'a resource). 
> 
>   
> _Lam’hiibyc Rang’senaar_ \- This is my own attempt to translate Rising Phoenix into Mando’a. It comes from _lam'hiibir_ (to raise, put up, lift), _rang_ (ash), and _senaar_ (bird). 
> 
> _Sen’tra_ \- Jetpack 
> 
> _Gar ru’vaabi jate, kar’ta...Gar bid jate._ \- You did so well, my heart...You’re so good. 
> 
> _An jate_ \- All good
> 
>  _Di’kut_ \- Idiot 
> 
> _Ner riye_ \- My good turn/good luck 
> 
> _Ner mesh’la cyare_ \- My beautiful beloved 
> 
> _Gev!_ \- Stop 
> 
> _Tihaar_ \- A clear, strong Mandolorian alcohol 
> 
> _Utreekov_ \- Fool (literally, emptyhead) 
> 
> _Ner oyu'baat...Ni copaani gotal'u gar aala bid jate._ \- My Universe...I want to make you feel so good. 
> 
> _Ner tracinya_ \- My flame 
> 
> _Ner rang’senaar….Gar bid mesh’la, bid jate._ \- My phoenix...You are so beautiful, so good. 
> 
> _Bid jate, ner mesh’la rang’senaar. Jii k’hetti. K’hetti._ \- So good, my beautiful phoenix. Now burn. Burn. 
> 
>   
> **Thank you so very much for reading!** 🧡💙
> 
>  ** _Minor edits made 03/08/2021 for nitpicky stuff that was bothering me because I can't leave well enough alone, I guess._** 😅


End file.
